Inappropriate
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Chapter 6 in which various places and positions are tried through the afternoon, and a slashy time is had by all.
1. Inappropriate Time for Texting

John's vaguely aware of the beep to his left, but he doesn't think for a moment that Sherlock will answer it. Not when Sherlock's making little huffs and arching back into him. But no, he can feel Sherlock reaching for the phone, and the telltale tickity-tack of Sherlock's fingers, one-handed at least, as he replies. But John's so close he's incapable of forming a sentence of protest and instead channels his annoyance into some particularly hard thrusts that earn a little whimper from Sherlock and send John over the edge into release.

John pulls away abruptly, with no gentle withdrawal and that elicits another little whimper from Sherlock, but John doesn't care as he flops on his back. "Really, Sherlock?" he asks.

"That hurt, John," Sherlock pouts, "Why are you angry at me?"

"Why? Because you were bloody texting while I was coming inside you. I think that shows a general lack of focus, on me, on us," and then, "Who the hell was it anyway?"

"Lestrade. I think he has a case."

"Well, good, you and the case can go and be very happy together. I hope it comes at a more convenient time for you."

"I told him I was busy," Sherlock says in his little lost voice that he uses when he knows he's done something wrong, but isn't sure how to make it right. He reaches for John's arm, but John jerks away to stand up and gather his clothes and clutch them defensively to his chest.

"I'm making tea and then I'm going to bed. Alone. And you can go do what you do."

John stomps off to the kitchen struggling into his shirt as he goes, and leaning on the kitchen table to put on his shorts and jeans and then just leaning on the table to take deep breaths. It's not like Sherlock wasn't into at the beginning. Case over, they'd been on each other as they stepped into the flat, Sherlock kicking the door shut behind them and proceeding to work his way down John's front, undoing buttons and snaps as he went. And when John tried to get to the bedroom or at least to the couch, Sherlock was instantly on the floor in front of the fireplace, wriggling out of his own clothes, tossing them aside and presenting his lovely, pale arse to John like a cat in heat, like some desperate feral beast.

John's breath was taken away again by what a lovely bum Sherlock had for such a thin man, and then by the fact that Sherlock offered it to him so eagerly and so often. He didn't need a written invitation. He fumbled for lube that always seemed to be at hand since they'd started this sexual thing. He vaguely remembered Sherlock coming home with a full bag of the little tubes and then scattering them in convenient locations about the flat. Sherlock liked to be prepared. And when they were like this, too needy to get to a bedroom John was grateful for the foresight. He had knelt behind Sherlock and kissed his way up his spine, taking little nips along the way that made Sherlock shudder. At Sherlock's hairline he'd sucked a little harder while he slipped a finger inside and made gentle circles, opening Sherlock up, then adding another until Sherlock was moaning and pushing back against him. Then pushing in, holding Sherlock's hips up so that he wasn't rubbing against the rug. They were both going to have rug burns on their knees and their elbows and probably other strange places but right at that moment it didn't matter because Sherlock was so tight and hot and this was so good each time it happened that John wanted to pinch himself to remind himself it wasn't a dream, so he pinched Sherlock instead, and was rewarded with another moan and push of hips back into his.

He reached for Sherlock's erect cock, but Sherlock murmured that he didn't want to come on the rug—which seemed faintly absurd given what they were already doing on the rug-but John moved his arm up to Sherlock's chest to gently keep them both up and kneeling. And they'd found a delicious rhythm that was steady but not fast, slow enough to keep them both on edge for awhile, and then, just as John was beginning to push erratically, the tension building deep in his spine, the damn text had come in.

John reaches to start the kettle, but it seems too much trouble and he decides to just go off to bed. Sherlock's huddled on the couch wearing only his unbuttoned shirt, legs drawn up. John just stares at him for a moment and leaves the room.

At some point in the night he becomes aware that Sherlock has slipped in beside him, but is staying a discrete distance away, wary.

John wakes up and looks over at Sherlock whose arms are thrown above his head, still dressed in only his white shirt. He's so beautiful in the morning light that John wants to forget that he should be angry with his lover and just press his mouth along the bare, white skin, the dusting of chest hair, the rose colored nipples, and further down to the thin line of black hair that trails into the dark curly pubic nest. But John's still wounded from the night before and so he gets up and goes to the kitchen as he does every morning and starts tea.

He almost jumps out of his skin when Sherlock is suddenly behind him, still naked except for his shirt, which would be comic if not for the slightly frightened look on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock holds out his phone for John to see and scrolls through it as necessary.

**To: DI's Lestrade, Dimmock, Gregson, Molly Hooper, Sarah Sawyer, Harry Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Scotland Yard, MI-6, MI-5**

**John & I will be unavailable for the next 24 hours at least. Do not call, text or come by. We will let you know when we are again within range.**

**SH**

Sherlock presses send and John can only stare, amazed as Sherlock then presses the off button and his phone goes dark.


	2. Inappropriate Behavior in a Kitchen

Sherlock tosses the darkened phone on the table as John rips off his t-shirt and sheds his pajama bottoms. John grabs Sherlock's head for a forceful kiss that carries them backwards and John then peels Sherlock's shirt from his thin shoulders just before he shoves him against the wall.

John's gone from flaccid to rigid in about 1.4 seconds and by the feel of it, so has Sherlock. Sherlock's clutching John's head as they continue to kiss passionately and John's reaching around to cup Sherlock's buttocks. He manages to break free for a moment to whisper, "Lube?"

"Second drawer down. Don't grab the glue."

John fumbles in the drawer trying to keep touching Sherlock, finds the lube and slicks it over his cock one handed. He shivers from the touch of his own hand and he knows this isn't going to last long, but Sherlock's mouth is open, pupils blown, eyes glazed and he thinks he won't be alone. Sherlock's hips are tilted forward, one knee bent, the other is lifted to wrap around John's waist. He pushes in as gradually as he can and Sherlock grimaces slightly."

"Alright?" John asks, worried.

"Perfect," whispers Sherlock and he pushes his hips into John's to drive him in deeper.

John manages to work his slickened hand between where they're pressed tightly together and stroke Sherlock's penis as he thrusts so that he's all but pushing Sherlock's cock up into his hand.

"Oh," Sherlock moans, eyes shut, head rolling from side to side, "Oh, oh, oh, oh," on John's thrusts, and then he's curling into John's shoulder as he comes with a drawn out, breathy "ahhhh."

John holds him steady for a moment before resuming his thrusts which are becoming faster, less controlled. He looks up at Sherlock whose head is thrown back against the wall, nearly pristine white neck arched, luxurious mouth forming a perfect O of pleasure and it undoes him. He comes with a strangled cry, hips jerking two or three times before he stills, head pressed into Sherlock's chest.

They're so slick and sticky together that they might as well have used the glue and John thinks how embarrassing that would have been to explain. It makes him giggle with repressed tension as he gently pulls free to fetch a tea towel. John leans against the table still giggling and then sees the slightly puzzled and hurt look on Sherlock's face.

He nods towards the phone. "That was the sexiest, most romantic thing you've ever done. In fact, I think that that might be the sexiest, most romantic thing that anyone has ever done in the history of the world. I love you, you mad fool."

And Sherlock smiles then, the genuine full smile that reaches his eyes, not the little sideways acquisitive smirk for when he has a new case or puzzle, and not the fake v-shaped smile he uses to manipulate people or the snarky one where he's just scored a cheap point. John thinks he could write a monograph on the range of Sherlock's facial expressions, what they mean and how he uses them. But John has only ever seen this smile directed at himself, and it says 'I love you and treasure you' more than words ever could."

John reaches out to take Sherlock's hand, "Breakfast or bed?"

"Breakfast in bed?" says Sherlock hopefully.

"Alright, go on. I'll join you there," because John knows that he's used up his daily miracle when Sherlock turned off his phone. Helping to make breakfast would signal the apocalypse.

So he playfully slaps Sherlock's arse to send him on his way and turns to start the kettle and make some toast.


	3. Inappropriate Uses of Jam

John loved seeing like this. Relaxed in post-coital bliss (or perhaps in coital pause would be a better term) and playful. Sherlock lay on his stomach, long calves kicking in the air as he finished the last of his toast. On a whim, John dipped his finger in the blackberry jam and wrote his name on Sherlock's slim back, re-dipping as needed as if his finger were a fountain pen.

"Did you just write your name on my back? In jam?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Why?"

"So I can do this." John leant forward and gently cleaned Sherlock's back with his mouth, leaving his name written in red blotches that probably wouldn't be permanent. He was pleased to hear Sherlock's breath hitch and feel the thin body shudder slightly.

"And this." John took some more jam on his fingers and ran a line down Sherlock's spine to the bottom of the tail bone and proceeded to clean that as well with long strokes of his tongue. This time Sherlock let out a little sigh of pleasure.

"Roll over," said John, a little surprised at how ragged his own breath sounded.

Sherlock complied and John was not surprised to see Sherlock's penis hardening with renewed interest. Sherlock looked up at him with a wanton smile that was part invitation, part challenge, as if to say, "What next."

John traced each nipple in blackberry and cleaned those carefully making them harden into sharp little buds. Then he smeared Sherlock's mouth with the raspberry like a particularly rich and glossy lipstick paying special attention to the cupid's bow of the upper lip.

"You do know that you have the most fuckable lips of anyone I've ever known, don't you?" Without waiting for a reply John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, licking at the jam and pushing it into Sherlock's mouth so that they were both tasting raspberries. He fumbled with the raspberry again and put his fingers between their mouths so they were both sucking on his sticky fingers. His cock was on fire. Sherlock looked so decadent, mouth already swollen and now stained a dark red. He painted more lines along Sherlock's neck and shoulders and tongued them lovingly until Sherlock was arching up against him.

"Please, John…"

Chuckling, John moved down Sherlock's body leaving little sugary kisses along his abdomen until he reached Sherlock's cock. He swirled blackberry jam around the length just beneath the head and licked all around before sliding back up to the tip. Sherlock was moaning now and murmuring little incoherent words.

John sat up and Sherlock gasped, arms rising to pull him back, but John just pulled the lube from the drawer. Sherlock started to pull his knees up, but John trapped them and straddled Sherlock instead. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. He slicked Sherlock's cock, giving it a good twist at the head to harden it even further. He prepared himself quickly and then, gripping it firmly lowered himself down.

They both sat still for a moment just getting used to the sensation and gazing at each other in a haze of lust, adoration and love. It was John who broke the moment, leaning down to kiss Sherlock tenderly. Sherlock tried to turn the kiss into something more passionate, but John had other plans. He sat back again, dipped his fingers in the nearest jam jar and slid his coated fingers along Sherlock's sumptuous bottom lip. Sherlock's tongue came out to catch his fingers and John slid them into Sherlock's mouth, one at a time. Sherlock obligingly cleaned each, tongue reaching out to tease between them then pulling back in to suck lasciviously, cheeks hollowing, until he was working all three of John's middle fingers, pulling at them and running his tongue over the sensitive tips while John rode him with slow lifts and grinds.

John grabbed Sherlock's hand with its oh, so long white fingers and returned the favor until they were both focused almost entirely on the sensation of each other's fingers in their mouths. Sherlock pulled John's fingers from his mouth with his free hand and sucked on the thumb almost painfully before letting go and running his tongue up and around his own palm. He reached down with his slick hand and began to stroke John's aching cock. He would pause occasionally to add more saliva to his palm and then slide his hand up and down and over the tip, licking the bit of pre-come as he brought his fingers back up for another slow lick.

John had to lean back a little to support himself on Sherlock's thighs which pushed his prostate against Sherlock's cock sending an agonizing tingle through his own. Between Sherlock's strokes and the taste of Sherlock's fingers in his mouth John felt himself boiling and with a cry he came across Sherlock's bare chest, splatters going right up to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stroked one finger through John's come and licked it slowly.

"Give me back your hand."

John slid his fingers back into Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock gripped John's hips to thrust up in his own rhythm. His eyes shut as he sucked on John's fingers as if they were a cock while his own penis thrust upwards again and again until his mouth fell open with a cry and he too came.


	4. John Inappropriately Checks His Phone

_**John "cheats" by surreptitiously checking his phone**_

* * *

"**You have two new voice messages:"**

Hello, John,

I hope you two have a pleasant "vacation." However, please do not make a habit of this. It so screws up the surveillance schedules.

Also, MI5 and MI6 are very displeased that my brother has their master email addresses. They have changed them already and re-encrypted them. Please tell my brother that I would take it as a personal favor if he would refrain from breaking into them for at least six months. The internecine conflicts are bad enough as is. Tell him that **if** he does this for me, I will make a small island available for your use the next time that you wish to "vacation" which is, as it happens, completely insulated from electrical signals of any kind. It's only available on the weekends as it is used for other things during the week.

Again, have a pleasant time.

(**BEEP**)

Hello, Dears,

Have a lovely time. Would you like me to collect your mail? I could bring up a casserole later. I'll just leave it outside the door, shall I?

**

* * *

**

**"You have three text messages"**

**Molly H  
**I so did not need to know that.

**Sawyer, Sarah  
**Fine, but tell him that I need you in fit condition to work your shift.

**Harry "What's Up" Watson  
**Ewww! 4 24 hrs? Didn't knw u wr up4it big bro

* * *

**You have one email. Would you like to read it now?**

**From: Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade []  
To: John Watson [.uk]**

Jesus, John, try to restrain him—wait, poor choice of words—stop him when he does something "clever" like that. Half the Yard is complaining of blindness and nausea. Gregson says if she weren't already a lesbian she'd be switching teams now and Dimmock and I have agreed to go out and get blotto tonight to wipe out the image of you two. I mean fine you want to—you're both well fit, but TMI, right?

Well, thank God he didn't send it to the entire press corp. That would be a fun headline for you to wake up to.


	5. Forfeits for Inappropriate Behavior

John really hadn't meant to check his phone. He really hadn't.

After the jam session, as they had laughingly called it, Sherlock had gone off to take a shower and John had decided that perhaps a cup of tea to prevent dehydration was a good idea for both of them. And then he'd seen the little light on his phone blinking where he'd left it on the coffee table. And he was curious. There was no other word for it. Curious to see what Sherlock's email had wrought.

He should have known better.

Sherlock comes out of the shower, towel around his hips, still rubbing his hair, glances at John and says, "Any good messages?"

"How did you… Oh, never mind."

Sherlock smirks, "I didn't **know **until just now, but I suspected from your guilty look."

"Fine. Your brother sends his regards and asks that you not hack into MI5 and MI6 for six months and he'll offer us some sort of island for vacation."

Sherlock glances up sharply, "Really? The island?"

John expels an unbidden image of Sherlock running through waves with someone else that makes him swallow hard and flinch a little inside. "Have you been there before?"

"No, just heard rumors. Mycroft must really be in trouble if he's offering the island. What else?"

"Sarah wants me in fit condition to work my shift."

Sherlock grins wickedly, "Depends on her definition of fit."

"And Greg says that the mental image of us romping has upset Scotland Yard."

"Good. They should have it in their heads. We look fantastic together!"

"What? We're the Brangelina of Baker Street?"

"What's that mean?"

"Never mind. You maybe, but not me."

Sherlock tosses the damp towel that he's been using to dry his hair onto the floor and crosses to take John in his arms. "You look like a soldier, like a very brave soldier. To me you are exquisite, and I don't know how other people don't just want to grab you in their arms and snuggle you all the time.

Snuggle? "Yes, but you look like a Greek sculpture."

"Weren't they rather more muscled than I?"

"Alright, you look like that Renaissance statue, David in a garden hat."

Sherlock pulls back, "What on earth are you talking about?"

"I don't remember much about it, but it was this statue I saw in the V&A and it made me and my mates giggle."

Sherlock's frowning now, "So you're saying my body makes you giggle. You really aren't helping your case here, John."

"No, no. I was ten and it's naked except for boots and this really funny hat. So, yes, it made me giggle then, but you don't make me giggle now—quite the opposite in fact; I'm saying you look like a perfect sculpture—unless you put on a lady's garden hat. Then I can't promise anything.

"Oh! I remember! It's by a Mutant Turtle!"

"Are you deliberately talking in riddles?"

"Teenage Mutant Turtles? No? Probably just as well. They're named after artists and it's one of them…not Da Vinci or Michelangelo…Donatello! Can't remember the other one."

Sherlock pulls John close again, leans down and murmurs in his ear, "Since I was punished all night for looking at my phone, I think you should have to pay a forfeit for looking at yours. Don't you think that's only fair? Especially since you are now blathering about turtles and garden hats and wasting valuable minutes of our 24 hours."

John shivers in the way that only Sherlock's voice can make him shiver. "How do you think I should pay this forfeit?"

"On your stomach."

"Ah…" is about all John can manage before Sherlock's pulling him back into the bedroom, pushing him onto the bed and onto his front.

He hears Sherlock fumble in a drawer for a moment, "The lube's right here, Sherlock."

"Not looking for the lube. Ah, here it is. I've been saving this."

Sherlock holds up a short leather strap with snaps. Oh, God. He really was in for it now. Sherlock strokes himself to get sufficiently hard and snaps the leather around his cock and balls. He looks thoughtful, as if he's considering the sensation.

"Tell me if it hurts at all, John. I _will_ stop if you ask…but then I'll have to think of some other way to make you pay."

First Sherlock moves two pillows under John's hips. Next he kneels between John's legs, spreading them a bit and angles John's penis down so that it's pushing horizontally against the pillows instead of giving him blessed friction. With a little lube he slides a finger inside. He leans over and whispers, "You're still open and slick. I don't think I need to do anything else at all." And to prove his point he slides his cock inside in one smooth movement that makes John cry out, but not in pain, just in surprise and pleasure.

Definitely pleasure.

Sherlock pulls out almost all the way and then pushes back in fully, deeply. The cock ring makes him feel mind-blowingly hard. The harder he gets the tighter John feels. While he aches he knows that he won't come while the ring is on and that gives him the luxury of time. With varying thrusts, tiny pulses of just the head and then long, deep thrusts all the way in, he keeps John on the edge for nearly thirty minutes, adding lube as needed so that John's never in pain, just a state of anticipation right on the precipice of coming.

Whenever John tries to reach between his own legs to give himself some relief rather than just the pressure of being pushed into the pillow Sherlock stops him and then stops moving altogether, resting against John's sweaty back while he whispers, "No, love, not yet." And when John stops and relaxes, well as much as he can, slipping back from desperation to mere need, Sherlock will start to move again. He never gets to have John like this, completely at his mercy, and he intends to enjoy it fully. Sometimes he rests back on his knees, never pulling out all the way, just to take in John's slender but sturdy shoulders and back, waist and hips.

John's hair is damp around the hairline and at the scalp and he's resting on his elbows with his head fallen forward onto his hands. He's taking deep breaths to keep himself from crying out. He won't beg. He's a soldier and he's been through torture resistance training, but this isn't torture and Sherlock can tell that his resolve is slipping.

Sherlock unsnaps the leather strap and gasps as the electric shock of his own arousal hits him fully. He feels hard as steel and as liquid as mercury. He wraps himself over John's back, reaches down and grips John's cock. "Now, John."

John exhales in a sharp rush and with a guttural moan starts thrusting into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock doesn't even need to move as John's shoving forward and sliding back onto Sherlock's penis in a shaky rhythm. He lets John take control of the movement, of the timing and John's there in a few hard pushes that become faster and irregular as the delayed pleasure envelopes him, wrenching a frantic cry from his throat as he comes hard and would fall if not for Sherlock's arm around him.

The sounds John makes, the tightness, the unmerciful half an hour of _anticipation_ brings Sherlock to his climax in a beat and it's shattering. He feels like he's being shot from an elastic band and he's falling over the edge into water and stars like blacking out, but he doesn't, just slumps over John, just managing to still hold them up long enough to pull free gently because he knows that John's going to be a little tender.

They fall together to the damp sheets.

"God," John sighs into his hands. "Are you planning on making that a regular feature?"

"Would you like me to?"

John chuckles and then winces a little before rolling, gingerly, onto his side to face Sherlock, "Perhaps, but only if we get to share it."

Sherlock grins back, "Sounds delicious. I can't wait. But for now, I want to see what Mrs. Hudson left us for lunch."

"Wait, how did you…? Oh, never mind."

Much later, lying on the bed with John's laptop after John's gone to take his own shower, Sherlock enters "Statue of David in a hat" into the search engine.

Hm…perhaps he should borrow one of Mrs. Hudson's hats and see what John would do.

* * *

FF won't let me put in the link, but literally, if you put in "Statue of David in a hat" or go to any page on Donatello, you will find it (which I will forever call David in a Garden Hat and it still makes me giggle)

Love this quote-that's our Sherlock: Naked, but for hat and shoes, David is both physically frail and strikingly effeminate. His physique, which Mary McCarthy called "a transvestite's and fetishist's dream of alluring ambiguity…"

The other Teenage Mutant Turtle is Raphael and I wrote this before seeing Framed last night on PBS (TMNT and Donatello is a plot point in the show).

And I don't think that Brangelina needs any explanation, except to Sherlock. 


	6. Inappropriate Places and Positions

They'd been at it for hours and it might as well have been days. Not in a bad way, but in a how many times can you fuck before it actually falls off kind of way. John can't remember ever wanting anyone this much before, except maybe when he was fourteen and the mere sight of a girl crossing or uncrossing her legs would cause his prick to burst into flame. Especially Mary Hilton who had breasts like a cartoon superheroine that jiggled when she walked, and when she turned fast they seemed to follow a fraction of a second behind, as if her bra wasn't quite up to the G-force needed to change direction so quickly.

Yes, he'd been a breast man, but what relatively straight boy isn't at that age, when suddenly you're confronted with the startling and unavoidable proof of the difference between boys and girls?

But he'd also been a leg man and an arse man in his time. He was pretty much an altogether, whole-package kind of man.

Sherlock certainly didn't have breasts, but he had miles and miles of leg, and a sweet, surprising, little arse that was eminently cup-able, firm and grippable in John's hands. The fact that Sherlock enthusiastically enjoyed wrapping those slim, strong legs around John's waist and clasping him as tightly as a vice—sometimes too tightly—and actively delighted in John's gropes at his arse no matter the occasion, pretty much made the lack of breasts a non-issue.

John's balls were chaffed; his dick was raw. His bum…well, he hoped he'd be able to go in to the surgery the next day, but he'd absolutely be seeing his patients standing up. Additionally, his glutes and hamstrings ached from being held in strange positions and used for too many…reps. He seriously doubted he had any semen left to ejaculate even if he managed to get it up, or keep it up, or keep his body upright, for that matter.

The cause of these disabilities was currently a tangled heap of sweaty limbs next to him. Sherlock's face was pressed sideways into the pillow, and he was drooling slightly, which shouldn't be erotic but was, to the point where John thought he might get to find out if he could come again, but Sherlock muttered in his sleep, made a funny little face, and turned away.

It wasn't so much the number of orgasms in question as the range of positions and array of locations. After dining on Mrs. Hudson's excellent tuna casserole, Sherlock proposed that they christen the room and after John was explained the details, they proceeded to do just that.

The couch they'd already covered, in more ways than one, but that didn't stop Sherlock from thinking that a quick refresh was in order. So he'd straddled John's lap, a position which was nice in that John got to grip the aforementioned arse, but unpleasant for John's ego, in that he only came up to Sherlock's sternum. And while he could coax some delectable sounds out of Sherlock's throat simply by working on his nipples, he did like to be able to press their lips together, and not feel quite so much like a nine year old boy dancing with a twelve year old girl at some holiday party.

Sherlock next proposed moving to the coffee table, but John pointed out that it wouldn't hold both their weights, so Sherlock sprawled across it, while John did some fun things with Sherlock's cock until Sherlock stopped him with a groan. It was beginning to feel like an obstacle race. Gropings and humpings against walls, knocking down books and knick-knacks (why did they have all this stuff exactly?), and finally shoving a riot of paper and pens out of the way to bend Sherlock over the table and really give him what for.

After John's legs stopped trembling, Sherlock pushed John into the stuffed chair on his knees, with his chest resting on the back and since the height of John's arse was then ideal, proceeded to return the favor.

That left only Sherlock's chair in the sitting room as there had already been some adventures against the mantle piece, against the front door—both open and closed—and on the floor in front of the fireplace which Sherlock graciously agreed to accept as adequately christened (despite the interruptus of the night before or perhaps because of it). John called for a time-out but it was cut short, when Sherlock proceeded to climb into his lap and straddle him backwards, giving Sherlock complete control of speed, angle and depth, while John could only reach around and hold on for dear life. Not that that was a bad thing if having control made Sherlock lose control so thoroughly. Particularly when John's hand on Sherlock's penis was matching the rhythm of Sherlock's hips sliding up and down and Sherlock was wailing out entreaties to all manner of deities, feet pointed and calves taut as he strained towards conclusion. John couldn't actually see the calves or the ballet positions of the feet, but he could feel Sherlock's muscles twitching along his own calves and Sherlock's heels brushing along his shins, and make his own deductions. Sherlock's triumphant yell as he splattered his own chest took John magnificently over the edge for the second time in less than an hour.

Something to be said for shagging (and being in love with) one's flatmate, over the charms of any number of girls (and boys, to be accurate) with whom John had been infatuated over the years, beginning with the nubile Miss Hilton, was the fact that as you shared the flat, there were no other roommates to appease or avoid or humor. Not that John had had any chance of enjoying Miss Hilton's charms nubile or otherwise as they both lived with their parents and were closely guarded at that age, but even since, at Uni or after when his time had been his own, his living arrangements had never been exclusively his.

There was Mrs. Hudson to consider, and as she was home, he did just manage to convince Sherlock that breaking-in either set of stairs or any of the communal hallways was right out, although he knew that that meant a rain-check for when Sherlock's freedom from a case coincided with Mrs. Hudson's book-club night at her sister's. He wasn't complaining about that per se, although he suspected that there would be some very interesting bruising patterns involved, enough to please Sherlock both intellectually and physically.

The kitchen table was old hat, and they'd done the bare bit of wall only that morning. That just left against the refrigerator (over the stove seemed unsafe even to Sherlock). Sherlock was on a roll, as it were, in bottoming and held onto the door bent over while John thrust into him at a punishing pace. Which was all fine, until Sherlock, jolted by the force with which John was pushing him forward and pulling him back, actually opened the refrigerator door causing them both to be pulled wildly off balance as when one picks up a box thinking it's going to be heavy and when it isn't ends up throwing it over one's head. The joy of orgasm is rather lost if it happens while one is suddenly freefalling. After that they decided that maybe trying different positions in bed might be the better course for the rest of the afternoon.

Sherlock attacked this with his usual zest, which had the unfortunate effect of making John feel like he was in a porn film. Just when he'd find a good rhythm and be relaxing into it, whatever it might be—Sherlock astride him, Sherlock under him, Sherlock being fucked sideways (and he'd always thought that was just a term, but apparently not) by him—Sherlock would suggest a new position and it was change partners all (well, at least change direction). Until finally John refused to yield again, and proceeded to fuck Sherlock (they were crossways on the bed at this point) nearly off the bed, so that Sherlock's head was hanging over the edge when they both came.

The sensation of blood rushing to the head while coming was so exciting to Sherlock that he insisted that John try it as soon as they were both even reasonably able. And John had to admit that it did add something without the dangers of erotic asphyxiation (which he absolutely refused to try despite Sherlock's insistence that they were both capable men of science and medicine respectively and should be able to do it safely).

And that brought the total to five in the afternoon and three in the morning, which really was quite impressive from a man of nearly forty, and even seemed to possibly be enough for a highly energetic man of thirty-four, judging by the way he essentially passed out after the last orgasm.

And so John was just drifting off to sleep (on his side, thank you, although so was Sherlock) when a low, sleepy voice murmured, "We didn't try it under the table, did we?"


End file.
